


SKYRIM: The Wingcutter Chronicles

by The_Firethief



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Comedy, Dark Comedy, Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-01-29 14:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21411373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Firethief/pseuds/The_Firethief
Summary: The Wingcutter ChroniclesAs told by Astrailing Verdalea, Bosmer of Nevenwood, Bard of SolitudeA collection of the adventures and comic exploits of the (not-so) mighty Dragonborn, Rach Wingcutter, and his compatriots in war against Alduin, and other adventures inspired by the game Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, it's expansions, and several story/character based mods, not the least of which is SmartBlueCat's Inigo mod (which, if you play Skyrim, I literally CANNOT recommend enough. It will change your game experience, if not your whole concept of what a "follower character" can be.)This was started on the Friends of Inigo Facebook page. So while Inigo is not necessarily the main focus of this series, he will be a staple and a stabilizing factor in the many shenanigans of the argonian known as Rach Wingcutter.(Lydia, a follower from the game is also present, though her nature is determined less by the game and more on the content added, again, by the Inigo mod.)Enjoy!
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. Introduction + The Beginning, DAY 1

Introduction.

I crave your attention!

Lords and ladies! Jarls, houscarls, thanes, high kings, low kings, in-between-kings and all, pray attend!

Butchers, bakers, mead-drinkers and mead-makers! Beggars, scholars, soldiers, and fools; Wizards and dancers; Saints, sinners, and necromancers! Hear my song!

Companions and rebels, Thalmor and thieves! Backstabbers, ditch-diggers, clergyfolks, and ship-riggers! Caravaneers from foreign lands, dockworkers, and farming-hands, listen well!

Bards! Guards! Cheaters at cards! Bandits, bounty-hunters, dressmakers and brick-layers! Dark Brothers! Night mothers! Drunks! Beggars! Sailors, goalers and headsmen... wait... did I say beggars already? Shit. Well, Listen up anyway!

You have heard other bards sing tales of the Dovakhiin... the Dragonborn of legend! Saviour of Mundus! Mortal born with the soul of a dragon! Hero with a warrior's heart! But they all sing the same song.

I speak now as one who was there! From the beginning to the end, footstep in footstep, companion and friend to the Dragonborn! For *I* was blessed with the divine duty of recording the legendary exploits of the Dovahkiin. His triumphs, and failures, his victories, and his defeats. If you wish to know the TRUE Dragonborn, you need only SHUT YER YAP and listen!

As I, Astra Verdalea, Bard of Solitude, relate the tale as no other can tell it.

The Beginning, or DAY 1

Down she strode from the city gates, the mighty Nord warrior. Dark hair gleaming in the sun, tan skin glistening in the heat of the day. Her plate armor was unmarred by defeat, and the bard knew her to be the newly appointed Thane of Whiterun by the deadly axe of office she bore on her back, crackling with stormfire barely contained within.

Yet more, so much more was this hero. For not only had the rumor spread like a brushfire from Dragonsreach to the lowest corner of the city, not only had the battle been seen by every eye in the hold, and not only had the ancient mountain-dwelling Greybeards shouted her name from the heavens above the Throat of the World... but the Bard knew that The Hero would be there.

An Aedric Oracle, mysterious and powerful, had warned the bard of a great calamity. The world itself was at stake! And only one could stop it. If the bard waited at the foot of the dragon's perch, in the land far to the north of her home, she would meet that hero. The Bard, trained at the Bard's College in Solitude, knew the lands of Skyrim, and so knew where to wait.

And surely enough, the hero, had arrived. A nord shieldmaiden, clearly a warrior of skill, intelligence, power, and grace; the perfect heir to the bloodline of Tiber Septim himself. She was followed by her bestial underlings, crude and unkempt, likely for little better than carrying her burdens. The bard took little note of them, but I shall relate their manners to you, for the sake of artistic imagery.

One was a khajiit, though one who carried himself with an unseemly pride, and spoke as if he wished he were an Imperial. Some magical experiment had turned his fur into an odd shade of blue, and his face was scarred, as with a house-cat who stays out every night getting into trouble. He was dressed as a common mercenary, with iron armor, though his weapons were of uncommon quality. Clearly a, experienced and remorseless killer.

The other was more unpleasant still. An argonian with scales of an ugly color; reminiscent of the rumination from a long night of drinking. Even less a warrior than the khajiit, this argonian, already short for his kind, walked with a hunch and poor posture. His clothes were little better than rags. His hide armor was bloody and clearly had been ripped from the carcass of some deceased bandit. His armaments, a flimsy shield and rugged war-pick, still stank of blackened gore.

It is no wonder the bard decided to ignore the hero's less-than-pleasant company, and address her directly. Kneeling down, head bowed in reverence, holding up her lute:  
"Dragonborn. It is an honor to stand before you. I am Astrailing Verdalea, Bosmer of Nevenwood, Bard of Solitude, Chosen by the Aedra to chronicle your epic. I beg for the honor to serve you as long as I may, until you find your destiny, or my body falls, and feeds the forest from whence it came."

The Dragonborn stood, silent, stoic, coming to some great and wise determination, even as her henchmen giggled like schoolchildren and made crude jokes at the bard's humble display of reverence.

"Wait..." the argonian said in his guttural voice, "Which forest whence you came?"

"I think she said Nevenwood." The Kahjiit responded.

"Does that mean if you die we have to ship you back there? Or would any forest do?"

"She was pretty specific. I don't know, that sounds like a lot of hassle."

"I admit, I do like the kneeling..." the lizard said, squinting his eyes and stroking his scaly chin, "Do you know any good songs? Ragnar the red? Oooh! Mogo's Beer?"

"It's Mogo's MEAD." the khajiit corrected him. "I bet having a real trained bard along would be a lot of fun! Perhaps she could give me a recommendation at the bard's college!"

"It can't hurt to ask."

Still the Dragonborn said nothing. The bard's dignity was fraying along with her sanity. Why would the heroic warrior force her to endure such humiliation? Why did she allow their petty mockery to continue? Surely, it must be some kind of test. Yes. That was it. The road would be long, filled with trials that demanded patience, wisdom, and the endurance of many tortures. And so the bard stood firm in her vigil.

A few moments of silence passed. The argonian coughed.

"How... do we make her go? She's starting to weird me out."

"You haven't accepted her offer yet. Say something... formal."

"Oh. Right." The lizard cleared his throat and stepped forward. When he spoke, if anything, his voice was even more gravelly than before he cleared it. "Noble bard-lady. You may rise. I accept the position of bard. I mean, of you. As bard. Wait, hold on..." The dumb lizard was clearly very easily confused. Even the Khajiit put an exasperated palm to his forehead. "Okay, hold on. All that stuff you said, recording the dragonthing or whatever. I accept." Another long pause. "She isn't doing anything. Inigo, it didn't work. Am I supposed to take the lute?"

"I don't think so. Try... Oh. I think... Lydia?"

"What? Who's there?" The Dragonborn finally spoke. The blue kahjiit sighed.

"Not this again..." he muttered. "Lydia, look down. No, behind you. No that's still not... Lydia. Look at the horsey!"

"Oooh!"

"Now look straight down."

"Oh! Hello there! It's a pleasure to meet you!" the Dragonborn warmly smiled at the bard and took the lute from her hands. "Thank you. I'll treasure this."

The bard blinked a few times, still not moving. No longer in reverence, now she was frozen in a horrifying realization which had set upon her.

"Do you need help finding your parents?" The dragonborn asked.

Slowly, the bard rose. Unable to bring herself to make eye-contact as her face turned red with shame, and her stomach attempted to escape through her esophagus.

"I think... she figured it out." The cat grinned.

"What? Figured what out?" the argonian said blankly.

"Miss Astraling, my name is Inigo, it is, indeed, a pleasure to meet you. Don't feel bad. We are an unconventional bunch. This is Thane Rach, the Dragonborn. That... is Lydia. His houscarl."

"Yeah, you're way better at this formal stuff than I am." the... dragonborn (the bard shudders even as she writes this word to describe the argonian) said. "But I told you, I don't like the whole 'dragonwhatsit' thing. I'm not a Nord. I'm a Wingcutter."

"A w...wing...cutter?" The bard stammered, still trying to come to terms with this sudden and tragic turn of events.

"I came to Skyrim because the Dragons are back, and ever since before I hatched, my parents would tell me stories of the Wingcutters of old... I guess you might call them Dragonslayers, but it was an ancient Saxhleel order. They're extinct now, and of course there's not been dragons since forever. But when I heard, I gave up my old life and ran to Skyrim!"

"I see." the bard frowned. "And what about you?"

The Khajiit shrugged.

"I'm not sure I'm quite comfortable with the publishing of my life-story by a bard I barely know, but... I can say I have a great sin to atone for. A debt that must be paid."

"To... to him?" The bard almost said 'to That?' but she managed not to.

"No, not to him. No, to another friend whom I was... unworthy of. I hope to find her some day. In truth I've heard rumors, but my new friend here convinced me that it would be better to go out and find her, and get a head start on paying my debt to the world."

"She may be in trouble!" the lizard chimed in with a sharp-toothed grin.

"Indeed." The khajiit gave a heavy sigh. "So now you know something about us, and we know something about you. You are welcome to join us if you still with to record the ballad of the Dragonborn."

"Wingcutter." the lizard corrected him.

The bard gave a deep sigh. This was going to be a greater test than she ever could have imagined. She looked to the hourcarl, Lydia for some sympathy, and the hope of a kindred spirit.

Lydia sidled in close and whispered conspiratorially.

"Here. Take this. It'll keep you safe." She held out a closed fist.

Relieved, the bard held out her hand. The Nord warrior dropped a small object into it.

"What is... is this... one of my tuning keys?!" The bard looked and saw that one.-- no, two of the strings on her lute were now completely slack. The houscarl was already working at unscrewing a third.

Infuriated, the bard snatched her lute back from the Nord.

"Give me... give me the other key!"

"No! It was a gift! From someone special." The bard was speechless, which was not a common experience for her.

Inigo gave the bard an understanding pat on the back.

"Don't worry, you just have to distract her. Lydia? Would you mind holding this for a moment?" The khajiit, this... Inigo, gave her his ebony bow. Then held out his clawed hand, and she gave him the key. "Thank you. Here." He pulled out an apple from his bag, and traded that for his bow back. Finally, he handed the key back to the stunned bosmer.

"This... you're all insane."

"Yes we are!" Rach said with a grin. "Welcome to the club!"


	2. The Road to Nothing, DAY 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road to glory is not well marked...

The Road to Nothing, or Day 4

"A mighty deed had the great Dragonborn been tasked with."

"Wingcutter."

The bard ignored him and continued with her narration.

"A mighty deed, and yet a simple task. Travel to the home of the Greybeards, the legendary High Hrothgar. Answer their summons. There would the Dragonborn discover his destiny. "

The four unlikely companions were tired and hungry from the long Journey. Both the nord houscarl, Lydia, and the khajiit mercenary, Inigo, carried bundles of pelts, poorly maintained weapons, a few harvested dragon-bones, and bloody armor, among other various junk. Carrying these burdens through the underbrush was not as easy as it had been on the road.

The bard maintained her spritely step, for she needed to keep her hands free and her shoulders unburdened to accomplish her divine artistic endeavor. The fourth, an argonian who called himself Rach the Wingcutter, was none other than the Dragonborn of legend.

He too carried little more than his own gear, though his collection of alchemical ingredients, (herbs, dead bugs, and other minor grotesqueries) had steadily grown over the last few days in both size and smell. As to the last few days...

"A half days walk, from the shining city of Whiterun, to the humble village of Ivarstead which sits at the foot of the 7000 steps."

"I know."

"A half day's walk. Not even on horseback."

"I know."

"Yet as they awoke on the fourth day..."

"I know where I'm going, all right? I'm not lost!"

There was an uncomfortable silence. before Inigo spoke up.

"My friend... I hate to side with the nagging bard about this, but I'm pretty sure we've been through this stretch of woods a few times."

Rach stopped and pouted, frowning as he examined the path ahead.

"Suddenly, a thought stirred in the head of the noble hero. 'Perhaps', he thought, 'We should get back to the road.' "

"Hey!" The argonian shouted at the bard, "cut that out! Stop saying what you want me to be thinking! Or, I mean, what I'm not thinking, what I'm thin... just stop it! We've gotta be close. That guy in Darkwater said it was up-hill all the way. Mostly. He said something about ponds, too."

"That's a river." Lydia pointed out.  
"Yes, I know that's a river. We've found at least four rivers but not a single pond. And the path splits, but BOTH ways are uphill."

"I'm pretty sure these were all the same river. There is no shame in admitting you are lost, my scaly friend! Perhaps it would be best if we..."

"I'm not lost I'm just... turned around."

"For four days?" Inigo asked dubiously.

"I'M NOT LOST!"

"The mighty hero, too strong to admit defeat at the hands of a river..."

"This wouldn't have happened if there were ROADSIGNS!" Rach suddenly yelled to the sky, "Why, by the nine, are there no roadsigns in SKYRIM!?"

"Trolls." Lydia answered. Rach stopped, and slowly turned.

"You... it... what? What do trolls have to do with it? Do they eat the roadsigns? Can trolls in skyrim read, or something, so you need to keep them confused so they don't wander into town?"

Lydia shrugged.

"I don't know about any of that," she said.

"THen WhAT ArE yOu TALKING ABOUT!!?"

"Trolls."

The argonian nearly ripped quills out of his head as he squeezed his eyes shut and made a pained expression. After a moment. He stopped and took a deep breath.

"Okay, Lydia? I need you t..."

And at that very moment a large brown and black troll, reeking of filth and rot slammed into the group, knocking Rach into Inigo and both into the river.

"You never should'a come here!" Lydia shouted as she whipped the steel battleaxe off her back and brought it to bear on the foul creature.

The bard, shocked at first by the sudden assault, both on the party and on her senses, backed away. Instinctively she drew her bow and took aim.

The troll gnashed its teeth and grunted, swinging its clawed arm like a meat-hook at the houscarl. Her armor took the hit, and answered with one of her own. lightning raced from the enchanted blade to the troll's body, sending it juttering back on its heels.

The bosmer bard let fly an arrow that sank into the trolls thigh. The thing roared, snapped the arrow shaft and slammed both arms into Lydia, throwing her back.

Even as the bard watched in stoic silence and nocked another arrow, the troll approached hungrily, drool cascading from his broken-fanged maw.

With a raspy warcry, the argonian charged past the bard. Shield first he slammed into the monster, bouncing off of it but staying in guard even as the troll was forced back a step.

With a whistling sound, an ebony arrow shot past the bard's face, picking up a few strands of her walnut-colored hair with the wind of its passing. The Khajiit ran past, switching his bow for his sword in a fluid motion even as the arrow struck home in one of the trolls eyes.

It hollered and swung its thick arms wildly. Rach and Inigo ducked in and out of its reach, taking swings and thrusts and performing flanking maneuvers, keeping it harried and distracted.

The bard saw this chance, and began sinking arrow after arrow into the monster's body. Still it fought on, and even with three fighting as one, the troll's wounds healed almost as fast as it received them.

"We need fire!" Inigo shouted. "Bard, do you know any magic? A little would go a long way, right about now!"

"Don't you know any?" she shouted back between volleys.

"No, but there is a funny story about that... I don't think now is the time!"

"By the nine this thing is exhausting!" Rach wheezed, "Where did Lydia go, anyway? Wasn't she right there?!"

"FOR SKYRIM!" came the warcry as Lydia dropped down from the rocks above, swinging the enchanted axe at the Troll. With a sickening sound, she sliced off the creature's leg.

Howling, it fell upon the ground, and began writhing in pain. Rach and Inigo took a step back. Lydia stood up, proud of her handiwork.

"Wow. Good move there, Astra."

"...What?" the bard said, taken aback.

"I said, good move. Didn't she do a good job?"

"...You meant Lydia did?"

"Of course. Why, what did I say?"

"You said... nevermind."

Still the troll, writhed on the ground in agony, its nightmarish bellows now turned to pathetic whimpers.

"I kind of feel bad for it." Inigo said, sadly. "Sure, it is a foul, stinky-breathed horror that would happily suck the marrow out of our bones for a snack, but... Lydia, couldn't you have aimed for the neck?"

"I was aiming for victory." She assured him.

"Still, let us put it out of it's misery. It is already trying to grow back that missing leg. Let us save it from that unpleasant experience."

Agreeing, the four companions finished off the troll. It stubbornly refused to die easily, and by the time it at last fell silent, every one of the adventurers was acutely aware of their exhaustion, their hunger, and their current unwashed smells, which now were mingled with the rancid troll-stink.

After a while, Rach spoke.

"Okay. The good news is, I know exactly where we are now and where we need to go. We are very close." Rach said, much to everyone's tentative relief. "Right up that way is the troll cave, yeah? And it goes sharply uphill after that to the top of that waterfall, right?"

Everyone nodded. He continued.

"So, I figure: up that way is probably just more trolls. We should cross the river and head up past those ruins."

"Soundly reasoned, my friend. Let's hope you are right." Inigo picked up his burdensome pack of loot and resources, as Lydia did the same. "Are you sure we need all these Dragonbones and shoddy weapons? It would take a master smith to make something useful out of them."

"Don't worry!" Rach laughed. "Everything's under control. We'll get to Ivarstead, and once we get there, we can sell all this junk to the local smith or merchant! Then we'll have a much easier time up those seven hundred steps."

"Thousand steps," the bard corrected.

"Wait... a thousand!?"

"Actually, it's seven thousand."

"SeVEn ThOUsaNd?!"


	3. Knock Knock, DAY 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe they should have put up a sign.

Silence.   
Rach knocked again. It left a bit of blood on the immensely heavy carved slab of a door. Behind him, The blue-furred khajiit, the armored nord houscarl, and the Bosmer bard said nothing, but gave each other sideways glances.   
The argonian put his fist against the door again. Then leaned his scaly head on it. Closing his eyes. He heaved three ragged breaths and then yelled against the door.  
"Let me IN you old snowbiters! I didn't climb seven deadra-cursed THOUSAND steps for you to ignore me!"  
"Maybe they died." Lydia suggested quietly.  
"Or napping? Who knows how old they are, " Inigo said, "but with the name 'greybeards' one presumes they aren't exactly youthful."  
Rach pounded the door again, to very little effect. Stone was not made to carry knockings very effectively. Rach shoved on the door. It didn't budge. He turned away, muttering, seeking something to bash against the door.   
"Stupid klimmek and his stupid SUPPLIES and his stupid... wolves?! WOLVES?! And WATCH YOUR STEP?!? Right right, because the path is icy, right, so I should watch my step going up the seven thousand stupid steps because it's not like there are TWO TROLLS on the way, no no, that would be RIDICULOUS. And Of course he probably forgot about the trolls... and the ICE WRAITH..." He was rooting around now in the large chest where he'd placed the supplies when he got to the top. He noticed now that there were about half a dozen other bundles of supplies, mostly frozen and dried up to in-edible mummified biscuits that once were cheese and meat. He grew even more insensate.  
Still his companions stayed back. Rach was still bleeding in several places from the fights, and the edges of his armor were still smoldering. He grabbed a small red vial, a healing potion from the offering pile to the Greybeards and chugged it without hesitating or slowing down, then pitched the bottle behind him, nearly hitting Lydia.  
"... no no, he probably forgot about the TROLLS and the WRAITHS because he was distracted by the BLOODY DRAGON he also FORGOT TO MENTION!!"  
The Argonian finally found what he was looking for.  
"PERFECT." He reached down behind the chest and pulled out an antique mining pick. "Knock? You want me to knock and SCREAM MY LUNGS OUT you dirty old bastards? Well I'll show you HOW I KNOCK!!!"  
Inigo stepped forward, not getting too close to the steamed lizard.  
"I'm sure you don't need to break down the door, there must be a knocker somewhere."  
"Oh a KNOCKER?! Don't worry, Inigo, I just FOUND THE KNOCKER and now I'm going to KNOCK THE DOOR TO BITS!"  
"Actually..." the bosmer bard added, tapping into her own reservoir of ancient knowledge, "High Hrothgar is said to predate the Empire but thousands of years. I don't think they used knockers, but they were, well, Tongues, so they probably..."  
* CRACK *  
Inigo and Lydia winced as Rach brought the pick down against the stone door with both hands. The pick snapped. Rach took several slow breaths as he trembled with rage.  
"Dragonborn..." Astra said gently, "this was built by people who specialized in shouting... maybe if you..."  
"FUS!" With a blast of wind and energy, Rach threw himself back from the door, stumbling but keeping his balance. He growled at it. "FUS! FUS! Bloody daedra-damned FUS!"

Finally, there was stirring from a high window on a tower inside the complex. An old man stuck his face out., his long beard hanging down well below the window sill.  
"Bugger off!" He shouted.  
Rach, not to be trifled with, threw a clawed finger and pointed at the old nord.  
"YOU Bugger off! We climbed the damned steps, now LET US IN!"  
"And who do you think YOU are?" The old man hollered. "This is High Hrothgar! No one enters without the summons of the Greybeards!"  
Rach changed colors, nearly apoplectic.  
"WE... WE HAVE A SUMMONS! YOU SUMMONED ME! I"M THE WINGC.... Damnit. THE DRAGONBORN!"  
"No you're not."  
"Wh...what... YES I AM! LOOK! FUS!"  
"Oh whoop-de-doo! So you can shout one little word! Anyone can shout one little word!"  
"I ATE a Dragon's soul, how about THAT!? Huh? And then there was this big shouting sound coming from THIS mountain, and everyone said I was being summoned, so maybe if I wasn't being summoned and I climbed up this mountain FOR HOURS fighting ALL SORTS OF HORRIBLE THINGS and all of it was FOR NOTHING then you OLD BASTARDS NEED TO WORK ON YOUR LINES OF COMMUNICATION!"  
There was a silence in return. The old man's face disappeared. A minute passed as Rach glared daggers through the empty window. Inigo saunted up to the unyielding stone doors to scrutinize them further. Finally the old man's face returned.  
"Oh, yes. Sorry about that. I was having a nap and I didn't hear the summons when my brothers sent it out. Looks like we did summon you. Welcome to High Hrothgar, Dragonborn!"  
Rach continued glaring at the now-smiling old monk. He took several deep breaths to compose himself and said in a painfully restrained manner, through his teeth.  
"I don't suppose, you would see fit to let me into your fine temple here."  
"It's really more of a monastery."  
A vein pulsed on Rach's head.  
"Could you, by chance, allow us to enter your fine MONASTERY HERE!?"  
"Oh yes, of course, just come right on in. It's not locked."  
"Not.... not locked. NOT locked? NOT BLOODY LOCKED!"  
"Ermm... Rach, my friend?"  
Rach's attention snapped down to his Khajiit companion. Inigo was smiling sheepishly, having pulled the great door slightly ajar.   
Rach inhaled deeply and Lydia plugged her ears.

And thus, after a mighty journey, and a war of words between the Dragonborn and the Greybeards, shouting as the dragons themselves, sending force and fury through thin and frigid air, rattling the very walls of the ancient monastery and the shivering slopes of the Throat of the World... thus did the Dragonborn who called himself Wingcutter, finally arrive at the place he was destined to be, High Hrothgar.

Down below, Rach's final cry of anguish and wrath released only a small avalanche upon the village of Riverwood, and almost no one was killed. R.I.P. Sven.


	4. Don't Drink a Gift-Bottle in the Road, DAY 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You never know what you might find on the roads these days...

"Upon the road, our mighty hero and his loyal companions journeyed. The way back to shining Whiterun, much easier to find, for following the road, than the little village of Ivarstead, or the harrowing Throat of the World Mountain. Perhaps the Dragonborn had been humbled by the four days lost wandering in the wilderness. Perhaps he had learned a lesson on patience after his mighty shouting battle with the four mighty Greybeards of High Hrothgar. Perhaps being set-upon by a strange group of cultists immediately upon being recognized as Dragonborn had dulled the blade of his impertinence. Perhaps his road of errors and missteps would one day lead him to--"  
"I didn't see you helping for any of that. I'm getting more and more concerned about this whole 'being followed by a bard to record my epic journey' thing. Who was it that you said sent you, anyway?"  
The bosmer bard turned up her chin at the argonian's criticism.   
"Artists are never appreciated in their time."  
"Some are never appreciated at all." Inigo muttered, only a little resentfully.   
"I was sent," Astra began dramatically, "By Dibella herself, divine of beauty and art! Through the mighty aedric oracle of Nevenwood, I was enlightened and told that it was my destiny to follow and illuminate the path of the savior of Mundus, the legendary Dragonborn!"  
There was a silence as the bard stared meaningfully into the sky and then dropped her pose.   
Rach coughed.  
"So.... Dibella, huh?"  
She rounded on him in an instant change of demeanor.  
"Don't you even start! I'm so sick of people assuming Dibella is just about... reproduction. She is the divine of beauty! That covers the arts, songs, all manner of crafts and revelries! But no, every slack-jawed, dirt-licking, mouth-breather just hears the name 'Dibella' and start to giggle like adolescent schoolchildren!"  
The group walked in silence after Astra's outburst. Behind them, Lydia sniffed.  
"So what kinds of revelries?" Rach asked.  
This set Inigo to giggling and Astra to glaring.  
"But really though," the lizard continued, "I'm confused how this story is going to turn out. Because you keep saying 'mighty hero' in ways that make me think you really mean... what was it... 'slack-jawed dirt-licking...'?"  
"Mouth-breather." Lydia added.  
"Yes, Lydia. Thank you."  
Astra closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths to soothe her just fury. The dragonborn delighted in trying and heckling her every chance he got. Still, it wasn't his fault he was an uncultured reprobate. Once she had suitably calmed herself, she spoke very simply and using small words.  
"You must trust me, Dragonborn."  
"Wingcutter."  
"You must trust me, Wingcutter. When I am done, your tale will be one of triumph in spite of all manner of obstacles. A ballad for the ages. Of course I must play up your mistakes early on, it makes you seem more flawed and vulnerable than you let on. If I sound overly critical, it is simply because you are merely TOO perfect for an audience to believe could be real."  
Rach squinted at the bard. She was smiling now, serenely, as if talking to a child.  
"Are you just flattering me so I'll be more cooperative?"  
"Maybe," the Blue Khajiit added, clearly amused, "but she is not wrong. We all have our flaws, but I do think you are going to prove quite the hero."  
"Oh fine. But I do have one request though."  
"What is it, mighty Wingcutter?"  
Rach squinted suspiciously again.  
"When you say my name, you keep saying 'Ratch.' You need to say it more like Rock, but with phlegm."  
"I'll do my best."  
"Hand over your gold!"  
Rach and Astra suddenly stopped short, with inigo bumping into them and Lydia bumping into him. Before them was a nord in tattered rags, wielding a rusty knife. He waved it in the air menacingly at his victims.  
"I mean it! Everything you got!"  
Rach looked back towards his three very well armed and armored companions with some disbelief.  
"Is... is he talking to us?"  
"I think so. I don't see anyone else around," Inigo responded. "Maybe he is drunk or crazy?"  
"Maybe he got bit by a crazy person!" Lydia suddenly exclaimed, drawing her axe.  
Rach shook his head. "No, Lydia, that is werewolves. You're thinking of werewolves."  
"Sir..." Inigo said, stepping forward, "if you are determined to die, we will be happy to oblige you. It does seem a waste though, as I assume someone somewhere probably... wait..."  
Inigo gave the air a long sniff and shuddered. Stepping back to the Argonian, he put a hand to cover his mouth and muttered to Rach:  
"Skooma. His breath reeks of it."  
"I have a knife!"  
"Yes we know, shut up a minute!" Inigo snapped before turning back to Rach. "How do you want to handle this?"  
Rach thought a minute as the unstable addict twitched and glared, his knife trembling in his hand. After a few long moments the argonian heaved a big sigh. He dug into his pack and withdrew a thin purple vial.  
"Okay friend, I'll make you a deal. If you drop the knife, you can have this skooma. Okay? Fair? The knife... for the skooma."  
The nord's eyes shifted back and forth between the knife and the bottle. They glazed over just from looking at the little purple glass. He threw down the knife.  
"Give it to me! Please! I need it!"  
Inigo was about to congratulate his friend on an effective ploy when the argonian tossed the bottle to the pathetically begging Nord. Inigo nearly choked.  
"What are you doing?! Why would you give him the skooma!? It would be less cruel to simply have killed the poor wretch than to feed his addiction!" Inigo was suddenly angry at his friend, which was not a common occurrence.   
Only a few nights before, in the little Vilemyr Inn, Inigo had confessed to Rach his own checkered past involving tragedy, not a little bit of it tied in with a skooma addiction the Khajiit had only recently broken. He was more offended that, knowing his past, Rach would so disregard him.  
The desperate man didn't hesitate to pry open the little bottle and dump the contents down his throat. The argonian just watched. The man froze, a look of shock on his face... and fell over stuck in that exact position.  
Inigo's anger turned to surprise, and then annoyance.   
"You could have warned me."  
"Sorry. I told you I'd find a use for all those empty bottles we found, though, right? Little bit of tree fungus, impstool and canis root always does the trick. Hey, Lydia, would you pick him up and carry him? We're only a mile or s from Whiterun, maybe that priestess Danica can do something for him."  
"Of course." The houscarl agreed, moving in to accomplish the task.  
Inigo glared at Rach.   
"You have a kind heart, and a promising future, my friend, but you sure can be a... Lydia! Stop biting him! Why would you do that?!"


	5. The Tomb of Terrors, DAY 9

The fire flickered and sputtered as the four heroes descended into the yawning darkness of the ancient tomb. An unsettling breeze from deep within carried a fetid stench that seemed determined to quash the already meager lightsource.  
"I will never understand your love of tomb-robbing." The blue-furred khajiit muttered in a voice forced to sound calm by sheer will, barely concealing a state of panic. "Anything could come reaching out of the walls, or come up through the floors with hands grabbing at us...!" He stopped to slow his fluttering heart with a deep breath or three..  
"Maybe they'll fall through the ceiling!" the nordic warrior supplied with enthusiasm.  
"Why thank you Lydia, I hadn't thought of that. The good news is, I don't have to use the bathroom anymore."  
"Oh, it's not so bad," Rach said, scratching his shoulder scales with the sharp end of his war-pick. "Dead jerks is just live jerks, only smellier."  
"My friend, I don't think you comprehend the seriousness of our circumstances! The dead are dead! They cannot feel pain, or fear, they have already died so who's to say they might not just rise up again once you've killed them? And look at all these ones on the walls, they don't seem inclined to move, but whatever animated their more feisty friends could animate them all at the same time and then we'd be surrounded by hundreds of these things! Clawing at us, dragging us down... only for what? Would our corpses join them in shambling around?!"  
The cats voice got shriller and more panicky the longer he talked. Finally, Rach turned on him, halting the procession.  
"Okay, Inigo, look. Yes, the undead are gross. Yes, they represent an existential threat and force us to face our own mortality and confront the terror of the unknown. But there is one thing that washes all that away."  
"And what is that, exactly? I am eager to hear what keeps you sane in places like these!"  
Rach glanced over to an ancient ceremonial urn. He reached out a claw and tipped it over. With a hollow cracking sound, it shattered upon the ground, releasing a pluming ash cloud. Rach kicked a clawed foot through it, further agitating the cloud, until he found something hard. He bent over and picked it up, then held it up to Inigo's face meaningfully. It was a ruby.  
"Treasure." He said lustfully.  
"Okay, yes, treasure is great and all, but still..."  
"Still what? It's treasure."  
"Bravely did the Dragonborn go forth," the bosmer bard at the back suddenly chimed in with her most poetic and ceremonial of voices, "Heroically robbing from the graves of the ancient ancestors of the Nords, violating the sanctity of their most sacred burial rites, with all the reverence of a drunk horse at a wedding."  
"Oh hush. These are just a bunch of old dragon worshippers anyway. I don't think we're offending any important ancestors."  
Lydia fell into a coughing fit. Inigo shuddered.  
"Aaaaand now she is breathing her ancestors. Are you proud of yourself?"  
Rach shrugged. 

The traveled on in silence for a while. There was a distant creaking sound that seemed to be coming from up ahead. A large cobweb shifted in the breeze. It was a very large cobweb.  
"Hey Inigo," Rach teased, "It could be worse... we could run into giant spiders. The first dungeon I went into out here, there was this HUGE one. There was this jerk was all caught up in the webs screaming for help..."  
"It is not polite to try to freak me out, and anyway, I actually enjoy fighting spiders. They make such a crunchy squishy sound when you bash their faces in!" Inigo giggled.  
"Wait, hold on..." Rach stopped them again. "You totally hate the undead, which are not that different from any regular bandit, but GIANT spiders who literally spit poison from a distance, whose goal is to paralyze you, wrap you in their butt-strings, and pin you helplessly up on a wall while they slowly liquefy and consume your organs, keeping you alive as long as possible.... those are fine. Am I hearing this right?"  
"Do not try to look for logic in phobias, my friend. I just like the way they crunch. And they have so many legs! They are so silly! Silly spiders, hehehe..."  
"Whatever, Inigo. Well I'm not concerned about spiders OR draugr. Hey Lydia! Astra! Any phobias I should know about?"  
"Tomatoes" Lydia Said with a shudder.  
"Oh no, this story isn't about... wait, did you say Tomatoes?" Astra said, suddenly losing her train of thought.  
"Ahh! Where?!" Lydia shouted, drawing her axe.  
Inigo facepalmed.  
"I have such a hard time reading her. Is she making fun of me?" he asked.  
Rach examined at his houscarl as she put away her axe, cautiously.  
"You know... I can't tell either. Lydia is either a satirical comic genius or a complete loon."  
"I resent that." She said, still eyeing the nooks and crannies for any potentially offensive fruit.  
Astra examined the Nord, herself intrigued by the question. Suddenly Lydia giggled.  
"Butt strings." She said, and laughed out loud.

At that moment, there was a burst of light as a dozen torches in the chamber they had entered all sputtered magically to life. They were surrounded by movement and rasping groans as a half dozen draugr started rising from their slumber, dragging heavy iron weapons out to gleam in the torchlight.  
"Time to rest in peace!" Rach shouted, charging the first and battering its rotten shield with his warpick.  
Lydia had her axe out in a flash; with bright arcs of blue light, she swung the lightning charged weapon into the side of a draugr with a bow.  
Inigo and Astra had their own bows drawn and were launching arrows into the advancing wave of shamblers at an incredible rate.  
It was only a few moments before all six of the draugr were unmoving cadavers once more. With a raucus metal creaking and a resounding *CLANG* a metal grate in the floor gave way, revealing a rickety wooden staircase below. Rach crowed.  
"See? No problem at all. And one of them even had magic! Time to loot"  
"Just because they terrify me does not mean I cannot fight them, my friend. If anything, it is even more encouragement to send them to oblivion as fast as possible."  
"Can you go search those two, then?"  
"Ahhh... no. I'm not feeling up any thousands-of-years-dead men, thank you."  
"Suit yourself. Though you don't mind feeling up freshly dead men?"  
There was a loud silence as no one spoke for a long moment.  
"You know..." Astra said diplomatically, "Eventually, Rach, you're going to be a famous hero, and at some point it would be a good idea to learn how to hold a conversation without making everything awkward and weird."  
Rach, ignoring the bard, pulled a potion out from the mildewing rags of one of the draugr's clothes. Inigo gagged.  
"Tell me you're not going to drink that."  
"Well, it's labeled as a potion of conjuration. So me? Probably not. But I bet Arcadia will pay a few coins for it."  
"Aren't you going to put a warning on it or something? How long has that been down here, surely they have a shelf-life of something less than thousands of years..."  
Suddenly there was a shuffling sound from the rickety staircase and the well of darkness below. Each of them drew their weapons again and turned to face the threat. Rach with his pick and a fairly sturdy shield he had just picked up; Lydia with her axe, crackling with power; Astra with an elven arrow gleaming orange in the torchlight; Inigo holding back a sweat aven as his ebony bow creaked with power waiting to be released.  
...as a large rodent clambered laboriously up the steps. Inigo let out a sigh of relief as Astra launched her arrow and swiftly ended the scavenger's existence.  
"Heh, no draugr after all." Inigo said, "I know it's.... Rach? My friend?"  
There was a distant patter of clawed feet on ancient stone, back the way they'd come. The three others stood there, shocked.  
"Did he just..." Astra asked, a grin spreading across her lips.  
"I think so." Inigo sighed.  
"Over one skeever?"  
"Do not try to look for logic in phobias, my friend,"  
"I suppose. But we're not..."  
"Oh we are definitely not letting him forget this." Inigo grinned wickedly.

***

Somewhere else. A place of darkness and swirling vortexes of pure energy and raw chaos. Indescribable cries from undiscernible creatures echoed across a roaring nothingness. No mortal life could exist in a place like this.  
A primordial voice ripped through the void, dripping with hatred, power, and wrath; speaking in a tongue that transcended language.  
"A new hand touches the beacon... awaken, Zagrath'Ur. The time has come to serve my will once more. "  
In the darkness, a red eye cracked open, wreathed in a terrible flame. A flame that was reflected in the deep fiery glint at the heart of a ruby in the pocket of Rach Wingcutter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Butt-strings.


End file.
